On the corduroy road that runs across Arkansas,                       
I was bouncin' up and down and havin' no fun at all.
The engine was sick and my back was getting sore;
And I said to myself, "Don't want to make the music no more."
Now my trailer's in the backyard underneath a sycamore tree.
It'll never go again, and that's alright with me.
Won't you please come and see me,
And sit beneath my sycamore tree?
You could pick a few notes, and sing another song with me.